


Imagine giving a drunken love confession to Thranduil, and feeling humiliated the morning after

by forestofmyown



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/105204572713/imagine-giving-a-drunken-love-confession-to</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine giving a drunken love confession to Thranduil, and feeling humiliated the morning after

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/105204572713/imagine-giving-a-drunken-love-confession-to

It isn’t an easy thing to get a private audience with the Elven King. It’s another thing entirely to get a late night drink with Thranduil himself, but that’s the situation you find yourself in, alone under the rare rays of starlight filtering in through the thick canopy above. A racing heart, jittery nerves, and the finest vintages this side of Dale swirl inside you, a combination of Thranduil’s presence, your own feelings, and the silence as you both rest lazily on the mossy earth.

You’re drinking too much. You know it, you keep reminding yourself, chastising yourself, but you’re nervous and slightly panicked, elated and scared, thrilled and scared and excited and worried and all the things that come with being both in love—and in love with a king.

So you keep sipping on your wine like a compulsion, giving yourself something to do besides stare at him or make a fool of yourself, to give yourself a moment to think between words, to keep any awkwardness away with a nifty little bottled excuse.

Sadly, the consequence of this is a steadily loosening tongue when you do manage to get a word out.

“This is my favorite place in the forest,” Thranduil comments lightly, his long robes spread out over the moss like a blanket of snow. “It’s enchanting.”

He looks to you for a reply, calm and patient.

All you can think, all you can see, is his perfection framed by moonlight.

You shake your head, sighing. “You are by far the most beautiful thing out here.”

Thranduil cocks his head, brows knitting together as his mouth curls slightly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you reading my mind? You look like you’re reading my mind. I didn’t know you could do that.”

His lip twitches further, eyes sparkling. “You spoke aloud, mellon.”

Glancing down at your drink, you glare at the wine for the offense it’s caused you, and then look up again. “Oh. Pardon, my king.”

Sweeping his arms graciously, he smiles. “Why would you need pardon for offering such a compliment?”

You shrug and take another sip of your drink. “Sometimes I’m not sure which of my thoughts are compliments and which are inappropriate.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think about me inappropriately?”

You stare down at your drink sadly. “Often.”

He goes still.

You continue to glare at the wine, at your unfocused eyes in the reflection, and grow steadily more annoyed. “I’m nothing, after all, right? Any thought like that … about you … it’s inappropriate. You are my king, far beyond my station. I’m lucky to even … just to look at you … to spend time with you. But my thoughts are so arrogant, to think about you like … to imagine … to want … “

With a growl, you throw back the rest of the goblet, gasping after you swallow the last of it’s contents. Then you sit silently, letting cup slip from your hands onto the ground and roll away.

“What did I have to fall in love with a king for?” You snap suddenly. “Not that I could help it. Who could, honestly? Look at you!”

You wave a flimsy hand wildly in Thranduil’s direction, looking at him for the first time in several minutes. He is still frozen, wide eyed and watching.

“Look at you!” You repeat. “Listen to you! Anyone who spends time with you would feel just as I do eventually. How could they not? You are so … ”

You lean forward, hand still waving, and then throw it down to catch yourself as you almost fall. Perched on your hands and knees, you stare up longingly into the face of the Elven king.

“Why are you so beautiful? How in Ilúvatar’s name is anyone so … perfect … so painfully … ”

You’re fairly certain that you fell over after that. You don’t quite remember. But sitting up in bed the next morning, you remember all the rest with painful clarity.

And mortification.

You confessed your love to the Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, in a slew of drunken ramblings. And then passed out practically on his lap. You’re surprised he didn’t leave you there in the moss to freeze in the cold; but then again, your drunken body probably marred the sight of his favorite spot.

You couldn’t be more miserable. Your stomach is in knots and your whole body feels like it’s on fire with shame.

How are you going to face him? You live in his palace—you can’t avoid him.

Your head aches, your stomach turns, and you want to throw up, and that’s not just because of the alcohol.

Should you even get out of bed? Why not just sit here and enjoy life while you can, before he sends a guard up to throw you out.

What do you do? What do you do? What do you do what to do what to do-

Three loud knocks sound through your room and ring in your head. You cringe against it, both because it’s so loud and because you’d know those knocks anywhere.

You lick your lips, clears your throat, and call, “Enter.”

The door slowly swings open to reveal Thranduil, who steps gracefully across the room and comes to stand beside your bed.

“Goodmorning, mel-”

He stops. You can’t bring yourself to look up at him to see why, but you wish you knew. It’s probably because he remembered last night.

Do you no longer deserve to be called friend? Have you lost that privilege? Have you lost your friendship with the king you adored?

The bed sinks slightly as Thranduil sits beside you. His hand comes up under your chin and cups your face, gently steering you to turn and look at him.

His eyes are clear, focused, and meet yours unflinchingly. It contrasts with the softness of his voice as he whispers: “Meleth nîn.”

My love.

Your heart almost stops in your chest. The night before, the humiliation, the nervousness, the fear and worry and shame; they all stop mattering. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.

Thranduil watches you, watches your eyes, and seems to find something there. He leans in, slowly, and his forehead rests against yours, his breath ghosting against your lips, inches away. You ache to close the distance, and yet are frozen in place. Frozen with hope and fear and apprehension and elation.

In the stillness, he chuckles. “Do you need another drink for courage, meleth nîn?”

You take a deep breath and press your lips to his.


End file.
